Restored .

Off to Toulouse airport to collect ' the font ' . Wilf does his welcome home dance in the arrivals hall . He circles round three times to the right before reversing direction and circling round three times to the left . He finishes off by repeating the original movement before flipping indecorously onto his back.

He always used to be the strong, silent type of dog , content to leave the histrionics to his little brother . No longer . The welcome home was accompanied by a range of feline like noises spanning at least three octaves. A tall man in a black suit , standing waiting for his family , laughs aloud and says " someone's pleased to see you ! " .

Stop off en route to buy wine and have a coffee at the cafe . The statue on the war memorial has come back after being cleaned . The town council had the bright idea of painting it . This was a mistake . The colours ran . It has now been restored to its natural state although the stonework seems to have been treated with a high gloss varnish which make it look as though it's made of Play Doh .

Wilf has a sliver of croissant . Normal service restored . One content boy . As he knows : Every day is an opportunity to make a new happy ending .

We might as well dance .

After two weeks of solid , uninterrupted sleep , a rough night . Trips outside every hour and a half . His water bowl filled up to the brim when we go to bed, again at two am and again at five . Drained down to the very bottom each time . It seems that after a four month long intermission the manic diabetic thirst has decided to return . No change in diet , no change in routine, maybe its ' the fonts ' absence ? More likely a complaint about the rapidly falling standard of cuisine . With Angus in charge of the kitchen he's now onto plain kibbles .

This morning the lady at the bakery leaves the cash till, wanders round to the street door and gives him some slivers of flaky pastry . Wilf perks up as the crunchy delight is gently fed to him . The rest of the queue have to stand and wait while this happens. The bakers wife scratches his chin and tells him that he's a ' p'tit chouchou ' . In return Wilf gives her his best old charmer look . He goes through life with the attitude that there might always be just a little bit more . He's often proved right .

That old Japanese proverb comes to mind : " We're fools whether we dance or not, so we might as well dance " .

A dab of terrine ..

A post coffee and croissant trip down to the old roman road . Wilf zig zags along . He's learnt that when his paws are touching tarmac he's safe and there's no danger of tumbling into a drainage ditch . When they touch the grass verge - time to change course . So we go , happily zig zagging our way past the cows and the old farmers even older tractor .

Home to watch Scotland play rugby . Its night time in New Zealand but nine in the morning here . They're singing the Georgian national anthem ( very rousing ) when the mayor arrives , followed by Sebastian the joiner and Phillipe the plumber . '' We were just passing " the universal excuse . ' The fonts ' crab and lobster terrine , meant for lunch , is finished off . Scotland win.

To celebrate Wilf has some terrine on toast . Angus and his visitors a glass , or two , of champagne . After they've gone Wilf spends five minutes trying to lick off a dab of terrine that's got stuck to the end of his nose . There's a look on his face that says " you only live once ; but if you live it right, once is enough".

The only regrets .

A slow start for Wilf this morning . He comes to the front door and stands there , looking first this way , then that , uncertain about what to do . Should he stay at home for a nap or come with me to the cafe in town ? The magic word 'croissants ' and this fun loving boys mind is immediately made up . He beams as he's lifted up into the back of the car .

Old PON's know '' as you grow older , you'll find the only things you regret are the things you didn't do " .

Whiffy Wilf .

' The font 'sets off for the airport at the crack of dawn . Time to go and see granny font . Angus is left with strict instructions to wash Wilf who has developed a decidedly ' whiffy ' old dog odour .

A well tested damage limitation routine . Run the bath, strip down to my boxer shorts, put on an apron and a pair of Wellington Boots , don a pair of Madam Bays Marigolds , lay a thick layer of towels on the floor and finally track down and then lift one exceedingly unhappy PON into the bath . Five minutes later , all the offending areas washed clean , Wilf emerges , polar bear white and smelling like a bed of roses . Straight out into the garden with a chew while towels are collected up and the floor mopped . The rising sun seems to make the old fellow glow bright orange . By the time it's fully risen Wilf is no longer wet and Angus is less frazzled.

Dried and fully dressed , again , Angus and the family fellow head off into town for our morning croissant, coffee and bowl of water . On the way back home a detour down to the valley for a mano a mano saunter by the stream . A huge swarm of electric blue dragonflies darting everywhere .

We arrive just as a herdsman is moving the young calves and their mothers down the lane from one lush field to another . Within seconds of getting down from the back of the car freshly washed Wilf finds a large puddle of something unmentionable to roll in . Over and over he goes in a whirl of canine delight . A look on his face that says ' Boy ! This is great fun ' .

Wilf is happy . Like all old dogs he doesn't ever save anything for a special occasion . Being alive is the special occasion .

Carefree rhythms .

It's hot . All the village houses have their shutters firmly closed to block out the sun . However , here at the rickety old farmhouse the shutters are kept resolutely open . This , according to 'the font ' is so that the bats , and their young , can sleep contentedly in the shade behind them . Bats it seems eat 600 insects an hour . There are literally hundreds of them behind our shutters which may explain why we have no mosquitoes in the garden . A bug free poolside in return for open shutters seems a pretty good trade-off .

Across the road the old farmer has now finished putting up the row of coloured Christmas lights around the eaves of his house . Mid - morning and he can be seen clambering up a ladder , carefully training an electrical cable through his climbing nicotina plants . At this rate it can't be too long before the lights are turned on and the village turns into a minitaure Coney Island . Thankfully, there's no sign yet of the huge Christmas star . Walking home with Wilf ' the font ' notices that our neighbour is working feverishly in his garage with what looks like ancient welding equipment .

Exhausted after an early morning trip into town for croissants and cakes , Wilf decides that sleep is a priority . Most of Sunday is spent dozing either in the hallway or on the shaded front doorstep . 23 hours of naps . The carefree rhythms of an old dogs life .

Wannabe .

Is it better to live in the country or in town ? At the bakers the two ladies in the queue behind me are lamenting the fact that the house with the cream shutters is up for sale . '' Only Parisians will buy it. They've got all the money " they intone as if being Parisian somehow guarantees the riches of Croesus . I've always admired this little medieval house with its pleasing run of arches and deep, sun sheltering arcades . There again it's right opposite the market square which is the site of many an impromptu concert . Last night it was the unusually named Lonesome Wally who were holding the townsfolk in thrall .

In the village salle des fetes a laminated poster concerning conduct has been tacked onto the notice board . A guide to good behaviour for five year old wannabe rugby players and their wannabe , again , fathers . I read it and smile . An innocent and uplifting guide to life .

Hot and humid . One of those days when you expect a thunderstorm to come barrelling down from the mountains at any moment to clear the air . I say Savannah weather . ' The font ' says ' more like Shreveport ' and stays indoors . Wilf , driven by the need for a pit stop , ambles with me down to the village pond . Above two buzzards are chasing off an eagle that's strayed too near their young . Down at pond side the sun drenched frogs register an annoyed ' ribbit ' before hoping into the cold water. Wilf settles down in the shade of a pomegranate tree and falls into a gentle sleep . Not much bothers him these days . Wisdom begins at the end.